“That would do,” he agreed.
Molly regarded him curiously. “Are you officially on or off this case?”
“Officially, off. But Abrams has said he’d be more than glad of all the unofficial help I can offer.”
“Which makes your status only slightly better than mine,” Molly said with satisfaction. “Want to go with me to see Hernando?”
“What’s your excuse for dropping in?”
“I thought I’d make a donation to Tessa’s memorial fund. He’s in charge.”
Michael nodded, then took a last sip of his iced tea. “Let’s go.”
They found Hernando Viero in his spartan office atop the downtown skyscraper where his bank was headquartered. The only thing lavish was the view of Biscayne Bay and the whitecapped waves of the Atlantic before them. On the bay at full mast was a tall ship, which took tourists out of Bayside on a tour along the Brickell Avenue skyline, under the Rickenbacker Causeway and past Vizcaya, the scene of the crime.
“Thank you for seeing us without an appointment,” Molly said to the bank president, who’d obviously taken the downfall of another banker down the street to heart. The most expensive thing in the office was Hernando’s custom-tailored suit in a shade of gunmetal gray that matched the distinguished traces in his hair and mustache. Everything else in the office was tasteful, but barely more than functional. If he had any art objects or gold fixtures around, they were well hidden.
“It’s always a pleasure,” he said. “What can I do for the two of you?”
“We wanted to see how Tessa’s memorial fund is coming. I have a contribution right here,” Molly said, taking a check from her purse. She’d drawn it on the trust fund set up by her parents years ago, money she’d sworn she’d never touch except in a dire emergency. In this instance, the cause seemed worthy of breaking that vow. She supposed there was a certain bitter irony in the fact that she knew they’d object to the cause.
“Wonderful,” Hernando said, putting the check in a stack on his desk without glancing at the amount. “Actually, the fund is doing quite well. I think Roger and Liza will be pleased. Has Liza given any thought to how the funds would be disbursed?”
Molly shook her head. “I don’t believe so, but she is planning an emergency meeting of the coalition board this week. I’m sure that will be on the agenda.” She glanced at Michael as she prepared to shift gears in the way they’d discussed on the drive downtown. “Hernando, have you noticed anything unusual about the contributions made thus far?”
His gaze narrowed thoughtfully. “Unusual in what way?”
“Perhaps from someone unexpected? Perhaps in an amount larger than expected?”
“No, but then I haven’t been looking for anything like that. I’ve just been grateful for every dollar that came in for Tessa’s sake.”
“Could we see the list of donors?”
“I don’t see why not. It’ll certainly be a matter of public record once it’s turned over to the coalition anyway. Nonprofits are very careful about their record keeping.” He pulled a folder from his desk drawer and handed it to Molly. She passed it straight on to Michael.
As he studied the pages in the folder, Molly tried to find an inoffensive way to phrase her next question. There wasn’t one. “Hernando, your relationship with Tessa …”
He sighed wearily. “Puts me on the list of suspects. I know that. It was over for Tessa and me. Quite some time ago, as a matter of fact. I believe she considered me a daring indulgence.”
Molly was startled by the odd description. “Why on earth would she feel that way?”
“Surely, you know that those in Tessa’s circle have yet to fully adapt to the new Miami. Many of them resent the Cubans, whom they feel have taken over. I am tolerated in those circles, because I have a certain power, but I am not liked. If Tessa had chosen to have an affair with a declared criminal, it would have been no less risky for her.”
To Molly’s astonishment there was little bitterness in his voice, just resignation, perhaps even a measure of understanding for those Anglos who’d been unable to adapt readily to the new Miami power structure in which they were no longer in the majority.
“But despite everything, you and Roger seemed almost cordial the other day,” she said. “If what you say is true, wouldn’t he be outraged by the affair?”
“Perhaps things are not as they seem,” he suggested enigmatically.
Michael glanced up at that, indicating that he had not been quite as absorbed in the paperwork as he’d led them to believe. “In what way?”
“Roger Lafferty owes a great deal of money to this bank. That is yet another reason for him to resent me. However, it is also an excellent reason to remain on friendly terms. Despite his business reversals, Roger is no fool. However he feels about me personally, he will not allow those feelings to show in public. In fact, he has found himself of necessity being my champion among his friends.”
“Could all that resentment have boiled over the night of the gala?”
“You mean could he have taken it out on Tessa, since he didn’t dare take it out on me? Possible, but doubtful. You see, for all of his indignation over her behavior, Roger still loved Tessa.”
“There’s a rumor that he planned to divorce her,” Molly said.
Hernando appeared genuinely startled by that. “I doubt it. I don’t think he would ever have willingly let her go.”
“And if she pressed for a divorce, insisted on it?” Michael asked.
Hernando looked troubled as he contemplated that. “Then, yes,” he said very softly, regretfully. “Under such a circumstance, he might very well have killed her, rather than let her go.”
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
There were far too many unanswered questions about Roger Lafferty, in Molly’s opinion. In Michael’s, too, for that matter. She could see it in his eyes when Hernando admitted that Roger was capable of killing Tessa to keep from losing her.
However, when she broached the possibility of paying another visit to the bereaved widower, Michael balked, digging in his heels with all the machismo he was capable of mustering.
“No way. Absolutely not. Forget it.” He peered at her intently. “Have I made myself clear?”
She flinched under that steady gaze, though she was somewhat less intimidated than she would have been a few months earlier. “Perfectly. So, what do we do next?”
“Nothing. You go back to work. I go back to work. And we let Detective Abrams do his job.”
“That is getting to be a very old refrain,” Molly pointed out.
“But a prudent one,” he said, dropping a light kiss on her forehead. This time it didn’t have the dizzying effect he’d probably hoped for. Molly was still thinking clearly and resentfully.
“Go back to work,” he repeated. He pointed in the general direction of South Miami Avenue to make sure she got the message.
“Back to work,” she repeated prudently. “Right.”
By the time she reached her car in the bank’s parking garage, she’d already figured out whom she could speak to about Roger without violating Michael’s direct order. It was certainly convenient, too, that Clark Dupree’s luxurious suite of legal offices was on Brickell, right on her way back to the film office.
Molly noted right off that representing big-time developers obviously paid a bundle. Clark’s teal carpet was every bit as thick as Jason Jeffries’s down the block. The art in the reception area was by Jackson Pollock and other lesser-known, but no less pricey, contemporary American masters. Maybe it was just an aura created by the classic, subdued gallery lighting, but Molly was certain the paintings were the real thing.
“May I help you?”
The voice was low, cultured, and classy enough to do voice-overs on British television productions. Molly decided the accent was a nice touch. She could see how it would appeal to Clark’s desire to create a refined image. It probably made the sleazy characters he represented feel cultured as well. T
oo bad it was deceptive.
“I’d like to see Mr. Dupree,” Molly told the woman whose thick waves of honey-colored hair skimmed shoulders clad in tasteful silk. “I’m Molly DeWitt.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
She gave a cursory glance at the mammoth, leather-bound appointment book, but she knew as well as Molly did what she’d find there. Or what she wouldn’t. She probably memorized his calendar by eight each morning.
“No, actually I was hoping to catch him between appointments.” Molly offered an apologetic smile. “I know how busy he must be, but if you could fit me in for just a few minutes, I swear I won’t take up much of his time.”
“Is this an emergency of some sort?”
“Life or death,” Molly said without batting an eye.
The woman’s gaze turned unexpectedly kind and gentle. “I’ll do the best I can.”
Every boss should have a receptionist like this one, Molly thought. She was better than Muzak at soothing anxious visitors. While she prepared to wait, Molly took a seat on a chair upholstered in an elegant fabric that reminded her of something she’d seen in Vizcaya. If Clark outfitted his office like this, what on earth must his home be like? she wondered.
She tried to listen as the receptionist spoke to someone deep in the suite’s interior, but that cultured voice had dropped to a discreet murmur. Occasional glances in Molly’s direction suggested she was the primary topic of conversation.
Finally the receptionist turned to Molly with a pleased expression. “Mrs. Murchison will see you now.”
Molly regarded her blankly. “Who is she?”
“Mr. Dupree’s executive assistant. I’m sure she’ll be able to help you.”
The only help Molly needed was getting past this efficient, feminine security system. She took a chance that Mrs. Murchison would be less stalwart than the receptionist. She had her doubts. She had a hunch the security got tighter the closer one got to the inner sanctum.
Sure enough, Mrs. Murchison looked her over as if checking for weapons. “I’m afraid Mr. Dupree’s calendar doesn’t permit unscheduled appointments,” she said, after deciding that Molly was neither dangerous, nor in grave danger of dropping dead on the spot. Other emergencies probably didn’t count for much around here.
“Five minutes,” Molly said, trying not to beg. “I swear I won’t take any longer than that.”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Dupree is out of the office at the moment anyway.”
Molly regarded her doubtfully. Why would either one of these women have gone through with this charade if that were true? The first wave of the guard would have sent her packing. Unfortunately, she couldn’t see any way to call her on it short of declaring her a liar or plopping into a chair and waiting to see if Clark eventually came into or out of his office. It hardly seemed worth the energy, especially when she had no concrete plan for effectively cross-examining him once she got inside.
She removed one of her business cards from her purse and handed it to Mrs. Murchison. As she did, she glanced at the bank of phone lines. Several were lit. Two were blinking, but another two were clearly engaged. There were no other legal partners, to Molly’s knowledge, not even space for a law clerk. Therefore, unless the receptionist had the ability to speak with more than one person at a time, Clark Dupree himself was on that other line. She gestured toward the phone.
“Give him the card when he gets off the phone and ask him to call me when he gets a chance,” she said, leaving the woman staring after her in openmouthed astonishment.
Disgruntled by her lack of success and curious about Clark Dupree’s apparent reticence to see her, she was halfway back to the office, when she remembered Josie, the Laffertys’ dedicated housekeeper. Josie clearly had tales to tell. Molly wondered if she’d care to tell them to her.
She made a quick right turn off of Brickell and headed over to Coral Way, then drove on through the Gables to the Lafferty house. Though there were no cars in the driveway this time, she intended to take no chances on encountering Roger. If she could get past the guard without being questioned, she’d go around to the side door and look for Josie in the kitchen.
The guard, the same one who’d been on duty on her last visit, waved—either in recognition or as a signal of general apathy, then went back to the magazine he’d been reading. Apparently it was absorbing enough or he was so unobservant that he didn’t notice her odd route straight past the front door and around to the side of the house.
If Josie was surprised to see her at the kitchen door, she hid it well. Maybe she’d just been around so long that nothing much struck her as peculiar. She waved Molly into the kitchen.
“I’ve been baking a bit,” she announced unnecessarily. The huge room with its restaurant-sized stove and ovens was fragrant with the sweet aroma of fruit pies and the nutty, cinnamon scent of coffee cakes. The results of her labors were lined up along one tiled counter. If she did many more, she’d have to open a bakery to get rid of them all.
“Can’t seem to keep my mind on anything else,” she explained with a shrug. “I figure we’ll be needing these before things are done. If not, they freeze up right well. You want to try a piece of my strawberry pie? Ain’t nothing like it in any of those fancy restaurants around town.” She chuckled. “I know that ‘cause I’ve had a couple of big-time caterers beg me to turn over that recipe.”
“Neville Foster was one of them, I’ll bet,” Molly said as she took the first mouth-watering bite of the sweet concoction with a crust so flaky it melted. “Josie, you deserve a place of honor in heaven for your baking. Neville’s customers have probably had this pie here and dreamed of serving it in their own homes.”
“Wouldn’t give it to the likes of him,” she said with an indignant huff.
There was so much derision in her tone that Molly regarded her in astonishment. “You don’t like him?”
“He’s a sneaky little so-and-so. Wouldn’t put it past him to snoop through my cupboards trying to steal my recipes. Caught him at it once, in fact. He claimed he was looking for the rest of the champagne glasses, but he couldn’t fool me.” She winked at Molly. “Lot of good it did him. I got my recipes hidden where no one can get at ‘em.” She tapped her head. “Every one of ‘em is right up here.”
Molly nearly moaned at the thought of losing all those old-fashioned recipes if Josie didn’t pass them on before she died. Obviously, for the moment though, the tough old bird had no intention of dying or giving away her secrets. Molly ate the last crumb of her pie and drank some of the herbal iced tea Josie had poured for her. The housekeeper was regarding her speculatively.
“I suppose you got a reason for dropping by to see old Josie?”
Molly considered trying to finesse her way around the old woman’s sharp intuition, but opted for being straightforward instead.
“I’m trying to figure some things out,” she said candidly. “I’ve got all these questions going around in my head. I thought maybe you could help me fill in some of the blanks.”
“About Miz Tessa?” Josie said, losing some of her vim and vigor. She suddenly looked her age.
“That’s right.”
“It surely doesn’t make a bit of sense to me either,” she said, sitting down heavily. “Why would someone go killing a lady like her?”
“You said yourself that she had her flaws.”
“She did that, but not the sort of things to go getting killed over,” she declared indignantly. “She made Mr. Roger madder than a wet hen sometimes, but I never heard him say a mean word to her.”
“They didn’t argue?”
“No more than most married folks.”
“I’d heard he was thinking of divorcing her.”
Josie looked convincingly shocked. “Never! Not Mr. Roger. He didn’t believe in divorce.”
“I thought she’d been divorced before.”
“That was all in the past. Had nothing to do with the two of them. Besides, he adored that woman, no matter w
hat. He turned a blind eye to her faults. Now if her own husband could put up with all her craziness, who else would have reason to hurt her?”
“By all her craziness, I assume you mean the other men,” Molly said carefully.
Josie hesitated, clearly uncertain over whether an admission could be considered disloyal. Apparently she decided it was too late to worry about such things. She nodded. “It puzzles me why a high-class woman would behave like that. It just wasn’t right and I told her so more than once. She had everything she could ever need or want. Mr. Roger saw to that. She said to me herself that he was a saint.” Josie shook her head sorrowfully. “Didn’t make no difference. There was always some other man waiting in the wings.”
“Any particular man lately?”
“She never told me their names ‘cause she knew I disapproved. I could just tell when there was a new one on the horizon.” She regarded Molly confidingly. “You know what the problem was? Low self-esteem. I saw that on Oprah or Geraldo, one of them shows. It was all about women who need a new man all the time to prove how desirable they are. If I’d been able to figure out that fancy VCR machine in the other room, I’d have put that on tape and made Miz Tessa watch it a time or two till she saw things right again.” She shook her head. “Low self-esteem. Who would have thought it?”
The concept clearly bemused her almost as much as it distressed her that Tessa might have been a victim of the syndrome.
“But why would Tessa have low self-esteem?” Molly asked, trying to reconcile that with the image of arrogance she presented to the world.
“Now that’s a question you’d have to be asking one of them fancy head doctors.”
“Are you sure about that? Low self-esteem usually begins in childhood. You said you were hired by her family when she was still a girl. What were her parents like?”
“They were fine people,” Josie insisted. “Helped me educate my brothers and sisters. Got ‘em all through high school. Two of my brothers even went on to college, thanks to her daddy’s help. Same college Miz Tessa’s brother went to.”
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